Imogen Robertson - Anatomy of Murder

She sat bolt upright in her bed in the cellar and waited for her heart to slow. Boyo and Sam slept on, just as she had seen them. But there was no ghost in the room and the air felt damp, rotten and familiar. Jocasta lay back down, turned to the wall and wondered.

WEDNESDAY, 21 NOVEMBER 1781

Stephen Westerman’s day had begun well. He had been overjoyed to be woken by his mother and taken out to play a while in the gardens of Berkeley Square before he had even washed his face, and skipped among the shrubberies in front of her, describing the various anchorages and landing places, the haunts of strange tribes that would amaze even Captain Cook, which he and Lord Sussex had discovered between the rhododendrons. It felt like a sort of miracle to have her complete attention. She had laughed and praised his courage, gasped when he described his battles with the French and Spanish navies and nodded sagely as he described his negotiations with the natives of the newly christened isles of Servicia and Gravesonia.

But then one of the servants had come out of the house with Jonathan and leading Anne by her fat little fist. The woman had spoken to his mother out of his hearing, and she left him at once, only wishing him fair sailing and kissing him distractedly on the top of his tousled head. He watched her go and meet two figures on the far side of the lawns. One was Mr. Crowther; the other he could not recognize at this distance.

The little boy hated watching her grow small in his sight, and wondered if he had missed breakfast, and how he could be forgotten so quickly. Would she remember that he still had her ring? It was tucked in his waistcoat now. Part of him hoped that she had forgotten, as that meant she would not ask for it back. Some other part told him that it was bad if she had done so. That the ring, like himself, should not so easily be dismissed.

Just then, Jonathan slapped him between the shoulders and began to dash along the path in front of him. It was a challenge, and could not be ignored. Turning, Stephen began to race after him, ignoring the cry of the nursemaid to mind his step.

“Good morning, Crowther, Dr. Trevelyan.”

The good doctor looked worried. Harriet was so used to his demeanor of calm good sense, she hardly knew him with his eyebrows drawn together and his chin low. Her heart fluttered and her mouth became dry.

“Sir, is my husband well?”

Trevelyan placed his hand on her arm and said quickly, “Indeed he is.” Harriet’s world steadied again and the sounds and sights of the Square returned to her.

“He is quite well, I did not mean to alarm you,” the doctor went on. Harriet managed a faint smile and drew in her breath. “It is on the matter of Mr. Leacroft I wish to speak to you, and I am sorry to call so early in the day. I met Mr. Crowther as I was hesitating on your doorstep.”

Harriet dismissed his apology with a shake of her head.

“What do you have to tell us?” she demanded, then caught herself, continuing to calm her breathing. “My apologies, sir. Would you rather come into the house? You have had an early ride.”

“No, madam,” Trevelyan said. “I must be returning to Highgate as soon as I may. I come because my colleague from Kennington Lane and I met by chance at our club last night, and something of what he said has been troubling me. I found I could not be easy till I had told you of it, though the significance of his words escapes me.”

They turned and began to walk along the pathway that ringed the gardens. It was a broad path, and it was easy for all three to walk abreast. Trevelyan found himself with Crowther on one side and Mrs. Westerman on the other, and had a fleeting sympathy with felons accompanied to their places in court.

He went on: “When I met this gentleman, we of course remarked on having found Mr. Leacroft. I do not know why you inquired after him, and on being asked, said as much. My colleague-his name is Gaskin, by the way-told me it was most strange, as after some year or so with no enquiries being made to his well-being, or visitors received, Mr. Leacroft had found himself the subject of a flurry of calls very recently, culminating in the arrival yesterday afternoon of Miss Isabella Marin, the soprano.”

“A flurry of calls, you say?” Crowther asked, and came to a halt. He had his cane with him, and began to twist it slowly into the gravel of the pathway.

Trevelyan nodded. “That was his phrase. He was entranced to meet Miss Marin, of course. She swore him to secrecy about her visit, but having happened to meet me, he could not resist informing me that she had been in his house. I wondered if she were there because of your inquiry.”

If Trevelyan had been hoping that his words might lead to some sort of explanation from Crowther and Mrs. Westerman, he was disappointed. Harriet sat down on a bench by the walkway and gestured for him to join her. He did so. Crowther remained standing in front of him, his eyes low and still twisting his cane.

“Can you tell us anything more of his other visitors, Dr. Trevelyan?” Crowther asked, without looking up.

The good doctor found that the weight of their attention was making him nervous. “I asked him,” he replied. “He said the first was ten days ago, a rather nervous young man whose name Gaskin did not recall. He was apparently closeted with Mr. Leacroft for some hours. He returned a day or two later, again for some considerable period, but has not been seen since.”

Harriet put her hand to her face. “Could that be Bywater? He was making enquiries, after all. So Bywater did find him! Yet he said nothing to Isabella, despite their fondness for one another. .”

Crowther looked up and met her eyes, which were heavy with thought.

“Remember, Mrs. Westerman, that despite that fondness he believed only that Mr. Leacroft was some acquaintance of her French singing teacher. He did not know the connection was personal. He may have thought that in concealing his discovery he was doing her no great injury, especially if he found some other greater advantage from his visits.”

Crowther and Harriet turned their attention to Trevelyan again. “But two visits, and another from Miss Marin yesterday does not constitute a ‘flurry,’” Crowther said. “What more?”

“The second visitor was on Wednesday, only a week ago, and was a much older man. He too spent some time with Leacroft, and Gaskin was careful this time to remember his name. It was Fitzraven. That is the name of the gentleman whose death you have been investigating, is it not? As Mrs. Westerman mentioned in her note.” He looked up at Crowther, who merely nodded. There was a long silence.

Crowther leaned forward on his cane and addressed Mrs. Westerman. “So let us suppose that Fitzraven followed Bywater on one or other of his visits. Might he have been able to inquire what sort of man Bywater was visiting, his profession, the nature of his malady- without announcing himself?”

Harriet turned to Trevelyan, who raised his hands. “Hardly impossible. Gaskin has a number of servants, of course. A man may gossip about his employer for the price of a drink. Such is the way of the world.”

“So,” Crowther said, “let us suppose that Fitzraven knew Bywater was visiting a mad, secluded musician. Then a week ago he decided to visit the man himself. What encouraged him to make that visit?”

“Wednesday last. .” Harriet said, rapping her fingers against her dress with increasing speed. “If the ‘C’ e una rosa’ duet was first rehearsed on Thursday, then the parts would have to be got ready the previous day.”

Crowther ceased to dig his cane into the pathway. “Which was the responsibility of Mr. Fitzraven.”